


Pieces

by tsv



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Light Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 08:52:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6368140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsv/pseuds/tsv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Venture has never known the meaning of "coping well". Alcohol becomes a convenient source of comfort, which, as with most things in his life, quickly spirals out of control.</p><p>For the prompt, "Rusty finds that he likes drinking an awful lot nowadays now that he's in New York. Brock has to deal with it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pieces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyofdecember](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofdecember/gifts).



> There's sexual content in here, but it's so brief that I figured a 'mature' rating would do rather than 'explicit'. Just wanted to give a heads up.
> 
> Thanks to ladyofdecember for this prompt! [Send me VB prompts on tumblr](http://tsv.tumblr.com/ask), I'm always open for requests of any kind, shippy or not (most any ship, too - smut requests are fine as well)! Anonymous is on and everything.
> 
> (I promise not to reply to every prompt with 3000 words of angst.)

It'd started out as having a drink an evening, a couple months after the Ventures' arrival in New York. Just the one. 'Wine thins the blood,' Doc had said. 'It's good for your health to have a glass a day,' he'd said.

Brock pointing out that he was drinking straight vodka, not _wine_ , did not seem to faze him in the slightest.

He should've known it was going to be trouble when White and Quizboy started joining him at the minibar after work. Rusty was largely the one serving the drinks rather than drinking them, but his two coworkers quickly goaded him into a second glass. And another. By the end of the night, the man was a giggling, stumbling mess.

There was a good reason they didn't keep alcohol in the house back at the old Venture compound. Of course, it wasn't as if he didn't take to self-medicating in other ways back then — pills, mostly, which weren't much better, but Brock tolerated them by comparison. Doc was a lot of things when he was drunk, but 'pleasant' was rarely one of them.

Unfortunately, J.J. had a _very_ well-stocked minibar, and it was going to take them a while to work through it.

Let them do whatever they wanted, Brock eventually started telling himself. He was falling back into old habits, nannying Doc and making sure he didn't self-destruct. But the man was a damn adult, capable of taking care of himself and making his own decisions. Brock would keep him safe, sure. But he wasn't a therapist. He wouldn't reel in his bad habits, except for when it made his job inconvenient.

And his job was a lot easier, now. The boys had grown up. Doc drinking himself into a stupor no longer meant taking up the responsibility of parenting in his stead.

So Doc could self-destruct all he wanted — Brock finally had his own life to attend to, with a gorgeous woman armed with a lasso of truth waiting for him back at her apartment.

—

It wasn't a problem.

So he got drunk every night. Who cared? So did a lot of people. And he was in the company of friends. Plenty of people drank socially, and this was more of that. Just call it Venture Industries happy hour.

But then Billy and White took a week-long business trip, attending a science conference on behalf of the company, leaving Rusty behind.

And the drinking didn't stop. It got worse.

It was just the pressure of the job. A lot of expectations to live up to, a lot of people to not disappoint. Rusty was nothing if not familiar with unrealistic expectations, as well as disappointing a lot of people, and it was always something you needed a little 'help' to get through. He'd forced himself to get off uppers years ago, so _something_ had to take its place as his emotional painkiller.

Unfortunately, while the pills brought energy and a quick boost in mood (as well as other, not-so-desirable side effects), alcohol slowed him down, mellowed him. Made him _think_ about things, something Rusty typically spent a lot of his time avoiding.

The boys. Brock, and his absence. J.J., and the responsibilities left in his wake. His father.

That last one drove him to drink more than anything, even now. He'd wanted it to be a distant scar, and yet it continued to gnaw at him like a raw wound. How could it not? He had nothing remotely resembling 'closure'. Bringing up scattered memories of his trauma to the people who had been there, who could've _stopped_ it, elicited nothing but laughter. As if jumping on a grenade at the age of seven was a _punchline_.

Rusty fell back against the couch cushions, a near-empty bottle dangling from his fingers, staring at the high ceiling. His skin felt clammy. He felt detached from his own body, like he was floating in a fog.

"Jesus, Doc. It's barely noon." Brock's voice startled him a little, looking up. He found his bodyguard staring down at him, leaning over the back of the couch.

He was surprised to find something like actual concern on the man's features, though the expression was difficult to make out through blurred vision.

"How many have you had?"

"Dunno," Rusty slurred honestly. "Shtopped counting."

Brock made a sound in the back of his throat and drew back, shaking his head. He sounded _disgusted_. Not nearly for the first time, Rusty felt a distant, deep guilt.

He closed his eyes and tried to will himself not to feel anything at all.

—

Of _course_ it got worse. Brock had wanted to believe that Doc wouldn't fall into the same traps of addiction that he always did, not when he had a company to worry about. He was stupid to think that added pressure to not fuck up would've somehow resulted in _better_ behavior.

But once again, Doc was a grown man. He didn't need to be babied. If he wanted to throw his life away, piss his inheritance down the drain, that was his own damn decision. It wasn't Brock's responsibility to take care of him.

Which is how Brock, of course, ended up gently picking the small, groggy arrangement of bony limbs that was his 'employer' up off the hardwood floor, carrying him off to his bedroom.

Doc felt worryingly thin in his arms. Brock wondered if the man had even been bothering to feed himself more than once a day. He looked like hell, too, pale and red-eyed, clinging loosely to Brock's torso.

And on top of that, he reeked obnoxiously of beer, as if it were coming out of his very pores.

"You look like shit, Doc," Brock said quietly as he eased the door open to the man's room, cringing as he abruptly knocked over an empty bottle with his foot. There were a surprising amount of them littered across the floor, most near the bed. "You gotta cut down on your drinking."

He received a fatigued mumble in return, felt the scientist clumsily curl inward and hug closer to his chest. Brock sighed.

After tiptoeing through the minefield of empty containers, he laid the man down on the mattress. Rusty whined quietly, probably from the loss of physical contact, or maybe just the loss of body heat. Either way, he barely seemed aware of what was going on.

Brock then began to begrudgingly undress him, carefully removing his glasses and unzipping the top half of his speedsuit, unbuckling the belt on it. The man squirmed and moaned in complaint, trying to sit up. Brock laid a broad palm across his abdomen, easily pushing him back down.

"Getting you ready for bed, Doc," he grunted as he leaned over the smaller man to look him in the eye, pulling the zipper on the garment the rest of the way down. Rusty blinked, staring at him for a long time in return, a look of bleary non-comprehension spread across his features.

He was then surprised by the scientist leaning forward and _kissing him_. Nothing particularly involved or passionate. Just a clumsy, wanting kiss, soft lips contouring against his own, tasting faintly of alcohol.

Oh. That was new.

It took Brock a few moments to mentally process that this was even _happening_. Once he did, he pushed Doc down against the mattress more roughly than he needed to, strongly averting his eyes.

"You're drunk," he said bluntly, firmly.

And that was about all the thinking Brock was going to do on the matter. He was definitely not going to think about the subtle burning in his cheeks, or how Rusty actually looked disappointed. The man was extremely intoxicated. Hell, he probably would've kissed _anyone_ in front of him at this point, regardless of gender.

Brock could barely look at him to get his clothes the rest of the way off, after that. He managed anyway, tucking the scientist in despite his repeated complaints, then getting up and leaving the room before Doc could figure out how to do something even more embarrassing than kissing his very straight bodyguard.

 _Extremely_ straight.

—

What time was it?

What day was it?

What _month_ was it?

Rusty's head swam. His mind tried to zero in on the answers to these questions, something that proved to be ultimately futile. He could barely focus on the chandelier hanging overhead.

He had the vague feeling he'd done something embarrassing last night, yet he couldn't remember it. Wasn't that feeling present _every_ night he let his inhibitions free, whether under the influence of something or otherwise? Letting his guard down never ended well. He'd learned that much from decades of humiliation.

Despite that, here he was again, absolutely trashed on the couch. At least this time it was, judging by the lighting, somewhere in the evening. Take that, _Brock_.

A shadow loomed in his blurry field of vision. Yet another person here to gloat at him for his poor mistakes and bad judgment, perhaps? Let them. He couldn't be bothered to care anymore.

"Pop?" A voice he recognized, uncharacteristically timid. He blearily recognized it to be Hank's. "Are you... okay?"

"Your father hasshn't been okay for the pasht four... passht four... pasht _lifetime_ , Hankh," Rusty slurred incoherently, covering his eyes with the arm that wasn't busy holding a bottle of liquor. He mumbled angrily, reiterating his point in a quieter voice, "Not okay."

He felt the cushions dip as Hank settled onto the sofa beside him. "Well... so... do you wanna, like, _talk_ about it? Y'know, instead of drinking a whole lot?"

Rusty let out a bark of derisive laughter. Talk about it? What the hell was there to talk about? He was a failure. Broken from the start, somewhere. Something in him was missing, so that he'd never be half as tall, half as strong, half as intelligent or have half as healthy a scalp of hair as his goddamn father, that godawful paragon of overachievement and excellence.

And just when he'd started to settle into his mediocrity, J.J. came along, blazing a brilliant trail despite every setback, making it painfully obvious just how pathetic he was in comparison. The true Venture successor everyone was waiting for. And now he was gone. And Rusty was left sitting in that empty throne, five sizes too big, with a thousand pairs of eyes watching and waiting for his next fuck-up.

Of course he'd fallen back on old habits. Of _course_ he'd began 'drinking a whole lot'. Who wouldn't? With a childhood so riddled with traumas that they haunted his every waking movement and nightmares _both_ , only exacerbating his failures and how pathetic he was, how weak, weak and pathetic and broken and weak and cowardly and selfish and weak and weak weak weak _weak weak weak **weak weak**_

Oh, good. He was _crying_. In front of one of his sons, no less.

Rusty dropped the bottle he was holding, not even caring if it spilled on the floor, turning inward towards the couch and curling up into a miserable ball to try and hide it. His shoulders were beginning to shake with the effort to hold in sobs.

He felt an uneasy hand lay on his head, clumsily stroking in an attempt at a soothing gesture.

—

"Harder," Brock gasped.

The golden lasso bit into his straining muscles, holding him as effortlessly as if it were steel, yet feeling more like silk thread. He would never have been so open with his desires, normally — but there was something _inside_ it, some magic, something that opened him up to beautifully careless honesty. The freedom of it was addicting.

A paddle hit him square on the ass, and he bucked forward, panting against the sheets. It hurt, yet at the same time left his skin throbbing, glowing with pleasant warmth. And Brock didn't mind pain. Somewhere behind him, he heard Warriana chuckle.

"H—harder." His voice caught in his throat, escaping him in a hoarse, breathless groan when she obliged him. God, he was rock solid, and _close_. Just a little bit more. "Ha— hard—"

The beeping of his wristwatch receiving an incoming call made him freeze, then wilt with disappointment, his head falling forward against the pillows with beads of sweat rolling down his neck. It was supposed to be silenced. If a call was coming through regardless, that meant it was marked as an emergency. Probably another Level 10 arching.

"I gotta take this," he grumbled honestly, already feeling himself start to go soft, the tight loops of glowing rope going slack around him. He straightened up, reaching for the device resting on the nightstand and pressing a button, angling the watch so it only caught his face, rather than his naked shoulders. "What's up?"

Rusty's voice crackled through the speaker. The man looked even worse than usual, and sounded as drunk as ever. "It'sh me, Brock. I wanted to— to talk to you."

It briefly flashed through Brock's mind that this might've just been a dumb, drunk phone call. Probably Doc feeling _lonely_ , or some other bullshit. But there was something in the man's voice that stilled his anger. Something raw, something vulnerable.

"Sure."

Rusty took in a shuddering breath, glancing away before looking back at him, visibly anxious. "I think — I might have — a problem."

Brock raised an eyebrow, taking a look over at Warriana, who looked as stoic as ever, save for a hint of annoyance over the interruption. He looked back down. "What kind of problem?"

The scientist closed his eyes for a long moment, rubbing his face tiredly before he finally spoke again, his voice quiet and raspy. "A drinking problem."

A chill ran up Brock's spine. If Doc, of all people, was actually to the point of admitting something was wrong with his behavior, then the situation was far more serious than he'd realized.

"Hang on, Doc. I'll be right there." He waited until Rusty nodded solemnly to end the call, turning to give an apologetic look to his 'mistress'.

Instead, he found Warriana smiling slightly for some reason, tilting her head sympathetically. "Go to him."

So he did.

 

After arriving back at the Ventech building, Brock found Rusty in his bedroom, curled up in the middle of his bunched up bedsheets, clinging desperately to them. He lifted his head at the sound of the door opening, glasses askew.

Doc looked awful. As he drew closer to the bed, he found him red-eyed and red-cheeked, moisture clinging to his eyelashes. He was astute enough to know exactly what that meant, but he also hadn't seen the man cry in something like a _decade_.

Brock tentatively reached a hand out as he sat down, wrapping it around his shoulder. Rusty didn't flinch — but he felt cold, and there was a slight, worrying tremor to him.

Some part of him whispered that he shouldn't have let it get this far. Another part of him said that Doc brought this upon his damn self. But the entirety of him felt like shit for seeing the man doing this poorly. For as miserable and pathetic as the man was, Brock still considered him to be something similar to, but not quite, a friend. Someone you knew more intimately than that, had lived around long enough to know their every flaw.

"I don't know how to deal with this," Rusty admitted after a few moments of silence, staring at the wall. He was still laying on his side, Brock sitting next to him. "I shtop drinking, what's next? Pills?"

Rusty curled up a little tighter, as if the very thought tormented him. Brock tried to rub his arm in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, feeling a little awkward.

"We'll get you sober, Doc," he soothed. "You've got... people. People who give a shit. You know that, right?"

He heard a quiet, miserable scoff in response to that, and wondered if maybe, Doc _didn't_ know. Pretty much his entire peer group, his coworkers and his friends, made fun of him and belittled him at various points. Sure, Rusty was more than enough of a dick to deserve it. But perhaps it was finally taking its toll.

Brock shifted closer, and felt the awkwardness increase. It didn't help that his brain chose that moment to dredge up the awkward, drunk kiss Doc had given him a few nights ago, something he'd been trying to forget.

"I give a shit," he said quietly. That got the smaller man to look up, at least, regarding him with tired suspicion.

Brock continued, meeting that with a smirk, trying to casually play off the admission of truth that he did, in fact, _actually care about him_. "I'm your bodyguard. That's my job."

Rusty smiled weakly. He didn't entirely look like he believed it, and it was starting to get eerie talking without Doc's routine sass in return. At least he was sitting up, now. Brock sighed, leaning closer.

"Look. You're an asshole sometimes, Doc. But you're a _likable_ asshole. You think I'd still be here, twenty years later, if I didn't kinda enjoy the company?"

He got a surprisingly sheepish look in return for that remark.

"Believe what you want. But the boys love you," Brock shifted on the mattress, hunching over a bit. "Quizboy still half-idolizes you. Orpheus called Dean the other week to ask how you were 'settling in'."

A more comfortable silence followed his words. He could see the emotions flickering, transparent to a rare degree, across Doc's face. Finally, the man looked up at him, staring with something achingly vulnerable in his expression.

It was then that Brock abruptly realized how close they'd gotten, suddenly. Just a few inches apart from each other. It felt too reminiscent of the other night. Surely, he wasn't going to try it a second time.

But then, once again, warm lips pressed clumsily against his, tasting bittersweet, like some kind of liqueur.

And this time, strangely enough, Brock found himself not wanting to pull away.

Not at all.

He kissed him carefully, at first, testing the waters. It felt alien to be doing this with another man, especially Doc, but there was something like a forbidden thrill to it. The thrill of the unknown.

Soon enough, though, Brock discovered it really wasn't much different from a woman. The slim contour of his mouth, the slight wetness to his lips, the way Rusty moaned and shivered when he pressed strong fingers to the curve of his lower back — it excited him nearly the same.

It didn't take long for their slow, messy kisses to evolve into something more eager, more passionate, Brock easing him back onto the mattress, kissing him hard. He felt clumsy hands gripping at his shirt, struggling to find a handhold in the back of the garment, sucking eagerly at Doc's lips and feeling a rush of arousal at the whimper it elicited.

He'd wanted this. Some part of him had wanted this, desperately. For how long, he wasn't certain. He had a beautiful goddess of a woman who could crush his head with her thighs waiting for him, and yet here he was, greedily kissing his skinny little employer, a _man_ , with all his ugly angles and puffy cheeks and dry eyes.

However, a heavy guilt was increasingly weighing in the back of his mind as he gradually remembered that Doc was drunk. _Very_ drunk. Whether or not he seemed to be sobering up slightly, his movements were still slow, uncoordinated, and he could smell the booze on the man's breath.

Regardless of the firm tent in Brock's pants, going further than this would be taking advantage of him. He reluctantly, deliberately broke the kiss, drawing back, no matter how disappointed or frustrated the scientist looked as a result.

"You're drunk," Brock said quietly, his voice coming out a bit husky.

"You and I both know I want it," Rusty complained. "Doeshn't matter if I'm drunk."

"If you actually manage to get sober, Doc, maybe then we can mess around," Brock teased, more as a joke than anything. But it ended up sounding more like a promise.

The clumsy, lopsided smile he got for that remark was brighter than any he'd seen from the man in a long time. Too long.


End file.
